Thursday, March 29, 2012

One of my friends is trying to convince me to start a Twitter because she keeps taking my conversational gold nuggets and passing them off as her tweets and she's getting a lot of attention for being clever and witty and I'm only okay with this because she hasn't made any money off of me yet. So, I've been thinking about starting a Twitter where I will obviously become famous and get lots of monies, and in preparation, I spent my evening practice-tweeting in my head. Here's what I came up with:

I was in the elevator on my way home today and there were exactly three people and two dogs when I stepped in. I spent the whole ride playing with the dogs and talking to them about what good dogs they were. Did not actually say anything to the people. #thatsnormalright

Watched the entire Sarah Mclaughlin (not Googling how to spell her name) ASPCA commercial and my heart broke with a squish and all this cholesterol leaked out everywhere. #maybehavesomeoatmeal

I'm considering being a sexy web chat girl because they get paid to sit around in their underwear and just *do* stuff in front of their webcams. That's like a Wednesday night around here, but with a lot more nachos and only a few stains on my wifebeater.

I can't go to my high school reunion until I learn something worthwhile. You know, other than "booze is great" and "having boobs is awesome."

Everywhere I live, it's like I'm being haunted by landscaping noise at 7 a.m. every Tuesday and Thursday.

Did anyone else freak the fuck out the first time they figured out how to chat online? Oh, AOL.

I want lickable wall paper in my house and I want it to taste like lasagna.

Dead people I would have loved to party with: Lux Interior, Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Oscar Wilde, Vonnegut, maybe Jesus. (If there's room in the car.)

Sometimes I drink by myself because I feel like with everything I'm doing wrong as a writer, I can at least do one thing right. And then I feel accomplished drunk! #drinkyourwaytosuccess

One time, I heard this girl say that the sweetest words a man could say were "I'll buy it for you." I'm pretty sure the sweetest words are actually "Let's watch Army of Darkness and make out."

True story: I silenced an entire room for making a poorly-timed joke about stapling bread to my shirt and going to a costume party as a yeast infection. #ladylikedefined

Pets I still want that I'm not allowed to have: a velociraptor, a great white shark, an octopus, a killer whale, a baby pygmy hippo (but just as a baby), a wolf, Predator, and a ghost.

Everyone contributes something to the world. I think my gift to the world is to give advice that no one asks for. You're welcome.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Me: The end of my internship is coming up. I'm filled with an unbelievable anxiety about the exit interview, so I started making a list of good things and bad things about my internship.

Friend: That's not a bad idea. Let's hear 'em.

Me: Bad thing #1: I got paid $100 for 6 months of work, which is less than children stitching soccer balls in some sweaty Nike hangout.

Friend: Might not want to lead with that. What else?

Me: Bad thing #2: This office has awful porn shui. Our computers are RIGHT THERE FOR ALL TO SEE! And I'm not talking about like sex porn, but, you know, if I want to be looking at food blogs or something, I'm afraid they're gonna catch me when I should be fact checking.

Friend: Maybe you shouldn't be so honest during your exit interview...

Me: Good thing #1: I like the work, most of the time. Unless I have to fact check with politicians, or rich people. Good thing #2: There is usually free food somewhere in the office every couple weeks. Hence, I am not starving.

Friend: You can't starve, you eat more than anyone I know. I don't know where you put it.

Me: Thank you. Unlike Shakira, my hips DO lie. They are secretly hollow, and that is where I keep my food stores.

Friend: ...

Me: I feel like I should do something great at the end. Like, make cookies for everyone. Or bring in fireworks or something. OR... I could come in to work in a beard!

Friend: Um...?

Me: When I left my last job, EM was trying to convince me to wear this beard she had left over from a production that she worked on. I didn't end up doing it because when I tried it on, it was really uncomfortable. Uncomfortable how GOOD I looked! OHH!!! No, but seriously, it itched a lot. That's how I rate men with beards, too, you know. Based on whether or not I would let the beard in question touch me. Homeless man beard? No. Santa beard? Only if I am getting presents. Hot guy scruffy beard? Yes.

Friend: Honestly, I am not even listening to you anymore. You stopped making sense like, five minutes ago. But don't talk about beards during your exit interview. Maybe talk about what you're going to do with your life, now that you're no longer an intern.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Okay, so the other day I was talking about this particular blog with all of my super-excellent dating suggestions and my friend threw it back in my face like, "What the heck do you know about dating, perpetually single girl?"

And I was all, "Hey man, I know at least 3 things for sure about dating," and that led me to generate this spectacular list that I'm pretty much giving you guys for FREE because I want you all to learn from my mistakes, which I make on a routinely regular basis (so obviously I'm not learning from them myself, which is why you guys have to, you feel me?)!

1. It sucks. Maybe it doesn't for everyone, but dude? I am so tired of having the same conversations over and over. "Grew up in California. Love cheeseburgers, burritos and beer. Have seen almost every zombie movie ever made and yes, they are an art form. Hate Kristen Stewart and romcoms. Love Vonnegut, Moore, and comic books. UGH I AM ALREADY BORED. But! I have also learned that if you try to mix things up like, "If James Bond had Jedi powers and existed as a foil to Indiana Jones, would Indiana Jones still save the world?" people look at you weird because they think you're on drugs or don't really appreciate the intricacies of the places that ADD will take your imagination. So, you have to stick with the boring stuff, which always feels like a job interview, and you know what? I don't want to go to job interviews when I could be eating boxes of Girl Scout cookies in pajamas with EM or sitting pantsless in my apartment playing video games.

2. The job of dating is to judge the other person, which means you should tell half-truths, or keep your weirdness to yourself. Okay, hear me out on this one: recently, I went out with a nice-ish fella who was somewhat interested in the fact that I was a writer, so I enthusiastically told him that I'm having a short story published in a horror anthology. "Oh," he says, interest waning. "Horror? What's it about?" and I said, "It's about a girl who kills and eats her boyfriend." I do see how that could be a red flag, but I explained that it wasn't to be taken literally and that it was more of a metaphor for some of the types of people that I met when I lived in LA and how our culture seems to condone disposable relationships with flippant consequences... but the damage was done. In his eyes, I was already a cannibal. So! Perhaps I should have stopped while I was ahead and changed the subject, but I only really have the miraculous gift of hindsight. The point here is that every single person is weird in some way, but you're not supposed to talk about it until after you get in the other person's pants. Or until the other person understands your sense of humor. Whichever comes first, right? It's just that personally, my goal here is to find someone whose oddities are on par with my own because I'm really bad at half-truths, but I'm sure if I was more coy or mysterious, I would just be covered up with dreamboats.

3. Just try to take care of yourself. I still have no idea how women are supposed to behave. I just cannot keep up with the news, you guys. Am I supposed to let a guy pay for me? Am I supposed to offer? Does that offend his sense of masculinity? Should I be offended if he asks to go dutch? If he doesn't offer to pay and I'm left with the check, should I hate him immediately for not being a gentleman? Am I supposed to demand the check because I am a strong, independent woman and I don't need no man to pay mah bills? If he pays, does that mean I have to laugh at his jokes that aren't really funny and entitle him to sexy Business Time? DOES ANYONE EVEN KNOW THE ANSWERS TO THESE QUESTIONS?! Because I don't. Seriously. When the bill comes, I usually get really sweaty and twitchy and just try to pay for myself. My rationale lies in my upbringing, because my parents always taught EM and me to take care of ourselves and not expect anyone else to, because it isn't anyone else's job. This is why I've never been able to understand the "gold digger" philosophy. What happens if your ugly rich husband dies and changes his will on his deathbed and leaves all of his money to Save the Sea Otters or something? You can't rely on someone else to pay your bills, ladies. Those sea otters are fucking cute.

OMG OF COURSE I WOULD LEAVE EVERYTHING TO YOU!

That's what it boils down to for me, you guys. Always hang out with your friends and family over dates (unless your date is Bruce Campbell). Try to find someone who matches your level of weirdness, or be good at keeping your quirks secret. Don't rely on anyone else to take care of you. Also, I guess if you're gonna be a gold digger, make sure your husband hates sea otters.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I was watching the History Channel the other day because when Discovery started doing all those gold rush, hillbilly-exploiting reality shows, I turned up my nose at their programming (with the exception of Shark Week, which is a TAB-family high holiday and is celebrated every year with appropriate sharkgod religious fanfare) and there was this show on about the Pacific Northwest and how it used to be a capitol of shanghai-ing people (kidnapping them and selling them to boats bound for Shanghai) and I thought that was really, really tragic.

"Can you imagine how horrible it would be to wake up and not know where you are and then have to go be a slave on top of it?" I asked Merrick, because no one else was in my apartment at the time and I talk to my pets like a crazy person. Merrick didn't say anything (so obvs I'm not THAT crazy) but he did swim around at the front of his tank because he likes it when the TV is on and I gave him some fish-kibbles.

Now, I have actually woken up and not known where I was on a few occasions, but that was mostly in college and the worst place I remember waking up in was a gutter (true story) and even waking up in unsavory places or with various sprained or broken bones (also true, and on separate occasions), it's usually a hilarious, Ke$ha-like experience covered in glitter and somehow a mysterious Santa hat in July and what you hope is your own vomit. You march home in last night's clothes (psh, Runway Walk of Shame, mofos), order something hangover-curing and fried, and pass out on the couch, no worse for the wear.

But the thought of waking up hungover and then having someone tell you that: "Oh hey, you're a slave now, push around this wheelbarrow full of rocks," (because in my imagination that's what slaves do? I don't know.) and just having to deal with it would not sit well with me. So overall, I'm really glad I don't live in old-timey times when people in the Pacific Northwest had to worry about that every time they left their huts for pizza, or whatever people in history did when they left their huts.

Although, if I did wake up and forgot whether I was in LA or in Seattle, I figure I could just find someone on the street and be like, "Do you like Boba?" and if they were like, "Fett? Oh yeah, Star Wars for the win!" I would know I was in Seattle. If they were like, "Boba? Ugh, bubble tea was so three years ago!" I would know I was in LA, and then I'd have to find some old-timey kidnapper and tell him to drop me off in Seattle on his way to Shanghai.

The moral of this story is "don't take my effing idea because I'm actually gonna write that into a bad sci-fi episode."

Friday, March 9, 2012

A friend came to me a few days ago to ask me for help. He was about to embark upon a magical journey known as "Second Date" and wanted the advice of a lady. (Played here by me!) I did used to have a dating advice column, after all, despite the fact that it was very short-lived because I advised several women that their boyfriends were probably secretly gay, and all of my letters involved some form of, "You know what? Just have a beer and let love happen." Plus, I've been known on occasion to let my probable ADD run away with me, which makes my advice more colorful than, say, "Dear Abby," because I have never known her to recommend tried-and-true relationship bonding activities, like lighting things on fire and taking your loved one to a shooting range. (There's just something romantical about the smell of gunpowder!) Sometimes, I think the ADD actually works in my favor... sort of like my advice-giving-superpower.

Me: You honestly cannot go wrong with hot wings and The Trinity of Bruces.

Him: Uh, I don't know that she'd be into B-horror and action movies... Maybe a drama or a romcom or something.

Me: Romcom? I don't know so many of those. Ugh, what the hell kind of a woman are you dating?! Okay, what about... a museum, or the aquarium?! OR! You could take her to a bookstore and buy her a book, and then she'll fall in love with you. Women like it when you buy them things, and books are the greatest presents ever. Fact.

Him: Um...

Me: It's true. Plus bookstores are awesome. Unless you buy her like, "Idiot's Guide to Fixing Scooters" because I'm sorry, but scooters are the bisexual of the bike world. Not a motorcycle, not a bicycle, just hanging out in the middle and you're like, "DUDE, JUST PICK A SIDE!" and everyone would be cool with it, you know? We just want you to be happy and secure with yourself, Vespa.

Him: I don't know why I ask you for help. You suck at dating. You hardly make it to second dates, anyway.

Me: Hey, it's called truthiness if you just nip things in the bud because your date doesn't like "Jaws," dude. Or doesn't read. Or has a criminal record. Or looks at you all judgmentally when you're talking about how you went to Taco Bell last weekend and ordered so much food that the guy asked if you wanted a second drink. Speaking of which, you could get some Taco Bell and a six-pack and go have a picnic somewhere out of your truck! That's romantic. So is showing up with a bottle of whiskey and all the Jurassic Park DVDs and making out on the couch.

Him: ...wow. Dating you must be like dating a pubescent teenage boy. I'm just going to take her out for sushi and a movie, I guess. Like regular adults do.

Me: You know what would make that date better? Fireworks. Or you could surprise her and show up in a Stormtrooper costume--you could borrow my helmet. OR... lasers. Like, a laser light show! But set to the music of Indiana Jones! Also, ice cream. Ladies love ice cream.

Him: Ice cream is not a bad idea! I'm surprised; I didn't think you'd be helpful in the slightest, but you've managed to give me a good suggestion after all.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

I have a literal fuckton of things to cross off of my "to do" list, so naturally, in my overwhelmed state, I am not doing any of it. Rather, I am blogging. That's how I roll. I make huge lists of all of the things that I need to accomplish to the point that there's no possible way I can do it all, resign myself to failure on a grand scale and either take a nap or drink more coffee.

What's more... last night, I began to wonder if I was similarly attracted to failure in others. Not necessarily romantically, which, let's face it, is a whole different bucket of failure, but just in general. Maybe I identify with it, who knows? These realizations came to me while I was playing "Explorers!" with Finnegan and he seemed to have resigned himself to failure whilst exploring a cardboard tube, and took a nap.

In case more explanation is necessary, I have a pet hedgehog. Finny is almost 7 months old, and he is probably the cutest thing that has ever existed. He is, however, a rotten bastard. He has a terrible temperament. He huffs and growls, he's anti-social and the only things that he likes are food and sleep. (I think he was like this before I got him, for all of you who think I go around breaking hedgehogs willy-nilly.)

When I moved to Seattle from California, I knew I had to get one. I've wanted a hedgehog since I was very little, but they're illegal in California, so immediately upon my arrival, I did my research and spoke with a very lovely woman whose hedgehog was about to have hoglets and promptly reserved myself a little pincushion of joy. The day that I went to pick him up, she had told me that one other owner had backed out at the last minute and I could choose between two males. She handed me one, a teeny little thing no bigger than my palm, and immediately, he tried to eat my sweatshirt and crawl in my sleeve for a nap. It was love. I didn't need to see the other one--this was my Finny. I've done plenty of research into hedgehog behavior and ownership, but it was clear to me very early on that Finny was not the typical hedgie pet. He doesn't like the treats that most hedgehogs do. He doesn't like the toys or activities that most hedgehogs do. He just seems content to sit in my lap, wander around the carpet and cause trouble by chewing on things, and eat his kibble.

I've strived for hedgehog excellence. I set up obstacle courses for playtime. I've tried to give him every delicious hedgehog treat imaginable--even pulled the legs off of a cricket for him so that it didn't jump out of his cage. No dice. He likes what he likes and is not won over by fancy toys or delicious bits. So, last night, while playing "Explorer!" where I create tunnels of blankets for him to crawl through, I tried one...last...time... to get him interested in some kind of toy. It was a cardboard tube that used to house a candle and was just big enough for him to fit in. He sniffed around, crawled in halfway (YES! I've succeeded! He wants to play!) and fell asleep, ass-up. Sigh. Failure achieved.

When he woke up, he crawled around the carpet and found some stray corn flakes, chewed them up and wiped them all over his spines. Now he smells like breakfast cereal and I'm beginning to wonder if he isn't "special." Not that I would love him any less, in fact, probably more, but it might make sense that he's missing a cute, little chromosome and perhaps I was drawn to him because when all is said and done, I just want to accept my failures gracelessly, eat something, and take a nap, too.

With my semi-deformed, oddly colored Beta (bought specifically because he wasn't as pretty as the other Betas and I felt a swell of love for the not-so-pretty fish that might get left behind) that I named Merrick, after the Elephant Man, the three of us make a pretty strange household. Maybe it's weird, but I'm a very devoted pet owner, once almost reduced to tears in Petco because when Merrick had tail rot and I came in looking for fish antibiotics, the fish guy looked at me strangely and suggested that I just buy another fish. "They're like, $5. Betas don't last long, anyway." "That doesn't mean Merrick doesn't deserve a fighting (ha, pun) chance! He is my responsibility, and as long as he is, he will have a safe, happy home." Even if he is the ugly duckling of fish. Even if Finny is... odd. In the end, no one is perfect, but that doesn't mean any one of us deserves any less love.

So, I guess I fail at a LOT of things, but I think when it comes to the important stuff, I'm pretty solid.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Very Political Friend: I can't believe how Rush Limbaugh is acting! First to call some poor student a slut and then to offer up some half-assed apology. It's shameful.

Me: I don't understand why you can't believe that.

VPF: Because he totally crossed a line! Don't you think so?

Me: Well, he's a figurehead who makes his living with sensational pseudo-journalistic political commentary. It would be more appropriate for you to be shocked if he were to come out and say, "Politics are silly! I'm going to live with the penguins in Antarctica before it all melts away due to global warming."

VPF: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: I'm saying that I am not shocked by his behavior. To expect a turd to be anything more than a turd is naive on your part, actually.

VPF: Are you a Republican?

Me: No. Maybe I'm not explaining myself well enough... Okay, think of it like this: Rush Limbaugh is like a dominatrix.

VPF: This is supposed to explain things?

Me: Shh, yes, okay. Limbaugh is a dominatrix. You, as a member of his audience, are the submissive. You're the one with the power in this relationship. You're the one who can control how much attention he will get for his shameful behavior. The surest way to disappoint him would be for everyone to think, "Oh, Limbaugh is being a twit again!" and turn off the radio, or stop reading his blog, or whatever. You can walk away from the situation. As long as everyone is talking about what a twit he is, he'll get more press and publicity, which is how he pays his bills. Don't want to support him? Don't listen to him. Just like the submissive in the relationship, you are the one with the safety word. You can say "stop" or "banana" or whatever your safety word is. And then move on to more important things, like buying me tacos and beer.

VPF: Sometimes, I worry that you are a voter.

Me: That's weird, because I usually worry about everyone else being a voter.